


The Temple of Melitele

by fannishliss



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Blindfolds, Destiny, Explicit Consent, First Time, Gentle Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt lives for the chance to be sweet and gentle, Geralt's poor self-esteem, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Melitele - Freeform, No Underage Sex, Prophecy, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Roach Ships It (The Witcher), Temple Prostitute, The Countess de Stael and her salon, canon-compliant references to sex workers, herbs in the wine but no dub con, lots of conscientious checking in, mysterious references to Jaskier's past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:22:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23245465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: Geralt finds himself heading toward Redania, towards the Temple of Melitele, where all shared acts of pleasure bring honor to the Goddess.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 47
Kudos: 387





	The Temple of Melitele

**Author's Note:**

> I have no special knowledge of book canon. I'm just spinning a happy utopian dream about Goddess worship. No offense is intended toward any real life Goddess worshipers.

It’s been a while since Blaviken.Humans spit at him whenever they recognize him, sometimes fling a stone when he’s not looking. Not as many contracts, so he can’t even get the satisfaction of doing his job to spite the ignorant people. Brothels turn him away no matter how much coin he hoards. He finds himself heading north, toward the Redanian countryside. 

The Temple of Melitele is situated in a lush pastoral valley, like a vision of perfection: orchards and vineyards all around, flower gardens and fields of lovingly tended vegetables, milk goats tethered here and there.Young oblates, glowing in the beauty of their youth, spending their season at the Temple all dressed in white, even as they work at tending the grounds. 

Geralt’s lip curls as he scents them, as he rides Roach on a slow amble… he notices widened eyes from some, sly smiles from others. 

Geralt shakes his head. It’s just that a Witcher needs to maintain his body at a certain level.If he doesn’t, he could lose control of his emotions, lash out unpredictably, or be distracted during preparations or worse, during a battle.Witchers pay their whores in good coin, earned by honest work.But if whores won’t have him…. the temple of Melitele is open to all. 

The cult of Melitele is all about shared pleasure, about care and respect and human connection.Yes, it’s meant to be anonymous— the oblates going by assumed names, the wide white linen blindfold protecting their identity during the higher ceremonies — but at heart it’s not anonymous at all.Geralt isn’t a worshiper of gods, but if he were, Melitele seems a worthy sort of goddess.Her devotees are among the rare humans who welcome Witchers with open arms. Geralt is conflicted about his infrequent visits to the Temple, like he’s taking advantage of the young believers for his own coarse needs.But in his heart, he doesn’t truly believe that. And that’s what makes him go back. Sometimes, when his life becomes too hard, too isolated, too much for even his stoic habits to endure, he goes. 

The feast of seeing an oblate tied and blindfolded, just a little out of their minds on herbed and honeyed wine, writhing and begging for his touch; the pride (Geralt swears this isn’t it, but really…) the pride of performing before the audience of priestesses, bringing an oblate to ecstasy over and over with his hands and mouth, before finally, carefully and gently doing his part as celebrant, opening that untouched body as a sheath for his cock, hearing their cries of completion as he brings them into full flower….

He doesn’t want to want that feeling of being wanted, appreciated for being gentle and good to someone.He doesn’t want to crave it, to need it. But he does. 

Roach has carried him to the main temple courtyard.A beautiful girl — can she really be old enough to be here? Geralt thinks, somewhat aghast — takes the reins with a smile and leads Roach away to be tended and coddled by young, enthusiastic hands. 

Geralt walks into the Temple.It’s a beautiful, peaceful space, he must acknowledge.The lofty stone walls, the colorful abstract glass in the windows throwing rainbow hues everywhere, the young musicians playing soft music on harp and flute… Geralt goes forward to kneel at the railing, lifting his clasped hands, bowing his head, and waits to be acknowledged. 

“In the name of Melitele, welcome,” a soft voice says, and two soft hands take his own and bid him stand. 

The priestess smiles.She’s neither young nor old.She looks into his eyes. 

“Welcome, Witcher,” she repeats, her smile unchanging. 

He could slaughter every human in this room in less time than they could ring their alarm bell.Yet this soft, unarmed priestess welcomes him. 

“I come in peace, Mother.I’m here to serve the Goddess,” he claims, trying to smooth and lighten his rumbling growl. He’s not even lying.

“Melitele be praised, for all acts of pleasure are her worship,” the priestess intones.“Which phase of the moon would you celebrate with us?” 

“I have no preference, Mother,” Geralt says. “I long to be of service.” These phrases, simple as they are, are soothing.They fit Geralt into place, make him part of something bigger, something pure, untainted, even sullied as he is. 

The priestess looks deeper into his eyes.She still has his hands held cradled in hers. Her hands are soft, holding his gently, like he hasn’t spent his long life slaying monstrosities.She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and after a moment opens them again.

“We celebrate the new moon in three days’ time.Do you desire to worship Melitele in the flowering of a young man?” 

It is a great honor, a great responsibility.Geralt’s heart swells with something like joy. 

“For Her pleasure, Mother, I will,” Geralt responds. 

“Blessed be,” the priestess says, nodding at Geralt, and beckons to an oblate who is following near with clasped hands. 

“Cynthia, lead this gentle celebrant to the baths.” 

“Yes, Mother,” the young woman says. 

Without further ado Geralt is led deeper into the Temple complex.The back of the building opens to more walled courtyards, gardens, fountains, and everywhere is gentleness, civility, beauty. After so many years on the Path, Geralt wonders why he doesn’t come here annually, or quarterly as many of the Goddess’s faithful do.But the Path is not a lifestyle choice for a Witcher, it’s his reason for being.A Witcher has suffered while being made fit to fight monsters, and when he is not fighting monsters, the torments of his life lose their meaning. The pain and hardship and violence of battle, beget the strength, scars, wisdom, skills and reflexes that fit him for battle— an endless, recursive cycle.The soft hands and sweet voices of this Temple welcome Geralt, make a place here for him for a moment, but they do not need him, not like a baby cursed in the womb needs him viciously fighting tooth and claw for both their lives the whole long night till break of dawn… 

Geralt finds himself in the bathhouse, the steaming water surprisingly light in sulphur, as two young men divest him of his armor, soft smiles playing on their faces. 

“In Melitele’s name, we are here to serve,” the young men say in unison, their eyes twinkling as Geralt stands naked before them.“Please let us know whatever you may require.” 

“I require soap, and a cloth for washing,” Geralt says.“Many thanks.” 

These young men would share their bodies with him, but Geralt isn’t prepared for that.He needs the distance of ceremony, the trappings of anonymity. 

“May we help you with your bath?”one asks. 

“No,” Geralt says, “but thank you.” It’s hard to remember his manners, accustomed as he is to so much harshness. 

“May we take your clothing and gear to be cleaned?” the other asks, courteously. 

Geralt nods.They amble away slowly, as if hoping he will call them back. 

Geralt seats himself on the bathing bench and scrubs himself clean of road dust.The dirty, soapy water flows away, along a little winding trench and down a drain near the wall.When he’s finally clean, he goes to soak in one of the bath chambers.He tests the temperature of each one till he finds the one that would practically boil a human alive, and submerges himself completely.The feeling is indescribable, floating in the center of the large open chamber.He surfaces, opens his eyes, and looks up. The ceiling is dappled with reflection of light off the surfaces of the water.Another musician is playing somewhere.The sounds of soft splashing. How is this place not overrun with worshipers? 

The worship of Melitele has faded on the Continent, given over to more patriarchal practices. It’s no longer the thing among the powerful families to send young men and women for their coming of age over a season at the Temple.More often now, the scions of the wealthy are sent to the cities, to study in salons with fashionable courtesans, while the poor are hired out to servitude in great houses, to be used and shaped by the whims of lordlings. 

Geralt doesn’t understand it, but then, he is old, and those who’ve lived through long passages of time are paradoxically first to lose their understanding of the changing tides of human ways. 

Later, after Geralt has dragged himself out of the hot water and dozed a while in the steam room, he wraps himself in soft celebrant’s robes, finds the library and holes up with a book till the dinner bell rings. 

Everything is beautiful here.The meals are simple, heavy on grain and vegetables, light on meat, especially for a carnivore like Geralt.But there’s plenty of dairy, cheese and milk and yogurt, so he feels nourished and satisfied by the meal. 

The musicians here are amazing.True, they’re young, but their time at the Temple allows for long hours of practice, so the ones who have talent and sufficient training have time to hone their brilliance. 

A girl with a viol da gamba finishes her set with a smile and a young man takes her place.He strums his lute, testing the tuning, and settles into a beautiful, intricate piece. 

“Oh, I hope he’ll sing,” Geralt hears one of the girls say.

“I know, he’s so good,” her friend answers. 

“He’ll make it as a bard, I know he will,” the first one continues. 

“He comes from money, I’m sure,” a third intrudes. 

“Hush your rumor mongering! the Mothers—“ 

“Hush both of you, he’s singing—“ 

The lush voice of the singer fills the room. His posture makes it look so easy, but Geralt can see the result of excellent training.His range is incredible, with a deep velvety low end and a pure, ringing treble. Geralt doesn’t know much of art or culture, but if the humans have ears to hear, the would-be bard will go far. 

After supper, Geralt is shown to a room, a plain and simple cell.He sleeps better in that little room than he has in weeks, the bard’s song echoing through his dreams. 

The next morning, after breakfast, he goes to check in with the Temple healer.She looks him over carefully and pronounces him fit.She asks some perceptive questions about any possible toxicity from potions lingering in his system, but he assures her that his body will have finished expelling the toxins from his most recent battle, a little over two weeks ago.She is satisfied, and he is impressed that she knew enough of Witchers to even make the inquiry. 

The rest of the morning passes in pleasant labor.He volunteers to help with whatever heavy lifting needs doing, and ends up pruning trees and mending fences. He goes to the stable before supper and finds Roach clean and glossy, with a bright look in her eye from so many oblates coddling her with currying and treats. 

“I know how you feel,” he confides in the mare, leaning against her neck. He is well fed, well rested, clean all the way through for the first time in months.It will not be easy to leave, and harder yet to keep from returning far more often than his duty should permit. 

Everywhere the oblates eye him with appreciation.How easy it would be to agree to go with them to the lounges of pleasure, where they practice the rapturous rites of Melitele openly together. 

Yet he refrains. The sweet, gentle touches of these fresh and innocent humans are too much for him to endure, threatening to awaken longings too intense to easily re-bury. As a celebrant, on the night of the new moon, his oblate’s hands will be bound, and Geralt will be in control.Only then, when he touches without being touched, can he allow himself to partake. 

On the second morning, he finds himself in one of the vegetable gardens, weeding around the spring onions.He remembers clearly, nearly a century ago, being set to a similar task by the gardening master at Kaer Morhen.How proud he was, so little, doing such an important job, as the master explained how the tall green sprout needed room in the soil, so the fast growing weeds had to be pulled.It was his earliest, simplest lesson in culling, as a Witcher.He remembers so clearly, the taste of the onion sprout the tutor let him chew, the strong, bright smell filling his nostrils as he conscientiously tried his best, the praises the master heaped on him as they stood together to look over the clean, finished rows.He had been so young, heartbroken and afraid, and working in the garden had given him his first moment of peace at Kaer Morhen, a tiny stirring of happiness in his infant heart.He had a lifelong fondness for the vegetable, and as a result he often smelled of onions, perhaps a little rank but so much better than smelling of blood and death. 

By the night of the new moon, Geralt has spent two long evenings and much of the last afternoon in meditation, so he feels unusually calm as he is led into the Temple.Torchlight flickers around the room.The smoke of incense scents the air, sweet but not overwhelming to the Witcher’s sensitive nose.Drummers are playing a quiet, but insistent rhythm. The room is full of people, but no one speaks, as two oblates lead him to the railing, pressing his shoulders down as he kneels. 

A priestess comes out to offer Geralt a chalice. 

“Would you serve the Goddess in the flowering of a young man?” 

“Yes, Mother,” Geralt says. 

She gives him the chalice, and he drinks.It’s wine, herbed with something to enhance his potency for the evening, not that he needs it.The entire Temple is redolent with the arousal of the congregants. 

“Blessed be your union,” the priestess says. 

“Blessed be,” Geralt responds. 

The Temple is hung all around with chimes, which are usually left for the wind to play, but to begin the ceremony, attendants stir the chimes by hand, so that the air of the place shivers with wild music.It’s an amazing sound, coming from everywhere at once. 

The young man is led in, blindfolded with a folded white cloth that covers most of his upper face,barefooted, wearing the open fronted sheer white linen shift of the flowering cloth.It’s the young lutanist, Geralt is fairly certain. The Temple ideal of anonymity is more about setting aside the oblates from the lives they’d left behind, the lives they will return to.Many Temple oblates meet again in later life; many become fast friends or even lifelong lovers. 

The front of the Temple has an altar, like most temples, where offerings are sanctified to the use of the Goddess and her worshipers. But the Temple of Melitele also features a large four poster bed, raked on a slight angle so the members of the congregation can view the proceedings. 

The young man is led to the bed, where he gracefully reclines.He stretches out his arms and twines his wrists in the loops of white cloth at the two corners.He takes a deep breath and breathes it out as Geralt watches.Geralt can smell his arousal and see how flushed he is from the pretty blush in his cheeks down to his rosy chest, revealed by the gap in his flowering shift. 

The priestess who offered him the chalice has withdrawn.All around the front wall of the Temple, priestesses and their partners are seated.Two of the men rise and lead Geralt by the arms to the bed. 

“Have you come freely to this bed?” the men ask the young blindfolded man. 

“Yes,” the oblate says, in a clear, ringing voice. It is the lutanist; his voice is unmistakable. 

“Do you offer the flowering of your youth to this man, in Melitele’s name?” the men intone. 

“Yes,” he repeats.

“Do you pledge your body to the Goddess?” the men ask. 

“Yes!” he answers. 

The voices of congregants all around the Temple join in against the backdrop of chimes and drums, with a short hymn to Melitele: 

_“On this sweet night without moon,_

_The blessed flowering ripens soon,_

_Ancient stars will shimmer and turn,_

_Young man’s passion build and burn,_

_And together the rites of love they learn.”_

While the poem is chanted, the two men place Geralt’s hands on the oblate’s feet. Then they back away, rejoining the Priestesses sitting along the walls on long benches. 

Geralt feels the lad’s soft feet in awe.He is perfect, unblemished.Geralt is old, wartorn.And yet, it is right and good for him to be here.His age and experience is counted as a credit, an honor to the Goddess.He needs to put aside his self doubt, and concentrate on what he has to offer to the younger man. 

He will give his all, in honor of sweet Melitele, and to the credit of the Wolf School. 

The lad’s feet are just a little bit cold.He starts there, by making himself comfortable at the foot of the bed. 

“Your feet feel a little cold,” he says quietly.There’s no rule against talking — in fact it’s encouraged. 

“A bit,” the lad says.He has a beautiful smile and thick chestnut brown hair. Geralt remembers, against his will, the singer’s striking blue eyes, clever and bright, hidden now by the blindfold. 

“I’ll warm them for you,” Geralt offers. His hands are massive and brutish, covered with scars, compared to the young man’s delicate feet. Still, he knows how to do this, and his skillful fingers dig into the arches, drawing a sigh of pleasure from the lad’s throat. 

“Thank you, um,” the young man says. 

“You may call me ‘wolf,’” Geralt says.He isn’t wearing his medallion.The young man has no idea that he is in bed with a Witcher — unless he’s been paying close attention to the guest tables at dinner, and there have in fact been a few other guests who could possibly be acting as celebrant.Geralt had kept to himself; he didn’t know if the lutanist had noticed him at meals or around the Temple grounds. 

The singer breathes deeps and relaxes with a heavy sigh. “Call me —Dandelion,” he says.“Buttercup? no, Dandelion!” 

“Hmm,” Geralt says.The oblates change their names as they like, often flitting between choices. 

“If anything I suggest is not to your liking, just say ‘pause,’” Geralt says. 

“Of course,” Dandelion says. 

“Or, if you need to stop for any reason, call for the Mothers,” Geralt reassures. 

“We learn all this on day one of our initiation,” Dandelion says. “Please, Wolf, I’m impatient.”

“The night is long,” Geralt says.“Shall I take the edge off for you?” 

“Please,” Dandelion begs.He squirms a little, his erection straining toward his belly, barely covered by the flowering shift.He must’ve been given an enhancing drink just as Geralt was, before he came into the Temple. 

Geralt leaves off warming the young man’s feet, and twitches the thin robe open.The scent of his arousal fills Geralt’s senses as he leans forward, and licks a delicate line up his cock.It tastes amazing, clean, and fill Geralt’s nose with the scent of desire. 

“Aaah!” Dandelion moans.“Ah, yes, Wolf!” 

Geralt licks and kisses, getting to know this sweet cock, mouthing at it and teasing it.He buries his nose in Dandelion’s groin, sniffing out the heady, musky notes.Then Geralt puts his hands on the singer’s hips, holding him down, and swallows him back, easily taking his full length.He tastes divine, fresh and delicious.Geralt loses himself in the sucking, caressing the inside of his mouth with Dandelion’s perfect cock. 

Geralt draws it out; slowing when he feels the young man approach his release, caressing his length with undulations of his tongue, playing at the tip, just drawing it into his mouth, licking at the slit. But Dandelion is too worked up to last long — he spills, and Geralt swallows, only slightly bitter, mostly sweet from the Temple's wholesome diet. The priestesses applaud the young man’s first orgasm of the night, and the other oblates ring the chimes all around the Temple, while the drummers play a little louder. 

Geralt moves up the bed as Dandelion heaves breath into his lungs. 

“Thank you, Wolf,” he gasps, as Geralt reclines beside him. 

“My pleasure,” Geralt replies.“May I kiss you?” 

“As it pleases you,” the singer responds. 

Geralt is a little surprised to hear one of the standard responses from the salons of the legendary courtesan, Countess de Stael, coming from a devotee of Melitele. 

“It would please me greatly,” Geralt murmurs.The singer’s lips are red and bitten, flushed with pleasure.

“Then kiss me,” Dandelion says.His lips are soft, pliant, and his mouth tastes of honeyed wine.Geralt wants to drown himself in that sweet kiss, but that is not his role here. 

“You taste of onions,” the singer says. 

“Does it bother you?” Geralt asks, somewhat chagrined. 

“Not at all,” the singer smiles.“I love onions, leeks, garlic, scallions…” 

Geralt thinks he will go on naming alliums unless he is stopped. 

“How do you feel?” he asks. 

“I feel wonderful,” the young man answers.“Your hands, your body against mine — you feel, mmm, large, powerful.I like it.” 

Geralt wants to feel that way — like his unnatural strength is something good, something desirable. 

“I am your servant,” he whispers.“My strength is all for your pleasure this night.” 

“Ohh,” Dandelion moans.“That sounds wonderful.Hold me, won’t you, darling wolf?” 

“As it pleases you,” Geralt says, returning the key phrase. He wraps the young man’s slender body in his arms, twining their legs together.Geralt’s enormous thigh is almost twice as thick as Dandelion’s; his bicep across Dandelion’s body is massive. 

“I’ve never had a lover so strong,” Dandelion whispers. 

“Aren’t you untouched?” Geralt answers, under his breath. Of course the oblates here are encouraged to pleasure one another in many ways, other than penetration. 

“I’m here to honor Melitele with my flowering,” Dandelion says. 

Geralt can hear something odd in the young man’s voice. 

“We worship Melitele with all acts of pleasure,” Geralt says.It seems a little strange for Geralt to take the role of the earnest believer.But it feels like honesty. 

“All shared acts of pleasure are her truest forms of worship,” Dandelion says, like he’s subtly amending what Geralt said. 

“I long to please you,” Geralt says, and he’s stunned how much he means it even as he utters the rote phrase. 

“Please, just touch me.Enjoy me.I’ve waited for this for so long,” Dandelion begs. 

“Sh,” Geralt says. “Relax, I’ll take care of you.” 

“Mmm,” Dandelion says.His hands twist at the bindings, just for a moment, and he arches toward Geralt ever so slightly, pressing their legs more closely together.Geralt wonders, just for a moment, how those strong musician’s hands would feel on his body. 

“Take me, wolf,” Dandelion says. 

“By the end of this night, you will be in full flower,” Geralt promises. 

“Oh, yes, I want that, so much,” Dandelion says.His speech is a little dreamy. Geralt recognizes the effects of the oblate’s wine from other times he has come here to serve. 

“I want to ravish you with kisses,” Geralt says.“If it pleases you?” 

“Oh, yes, Wolf!” Dandelion moans. 

Geralt sets about doing so, mouthing against Dandelion’s neck and scenting his delightful, thick, fragrant hair.The young man is a feast for Geralt’s heightened senses.His skin is so smooth, and soft, and warm.His dark chestnut hair is just long enough for Geralt to tangle in his hands.The scents rising from his body are lush and redolent of pleasure.The taste of him is clean and delightful, full of life, a little salty as his body heat rises.Geralt suckles at the pink nipples, cards his fingers through the scattered hair on the young man’s chest.He is lean and well made, with good tone in his muscles.And his voice, rich and smooth, is music to Geralt’s ears. 

“Ah, ah,” Dandelion pants as Geralt strokes him, feeding his arousal, keeping him on edge. Geralt can imagine how the young man would grip his shoulders, if his hands were not clenched in the fabric loops tied to the bedposts.As it is, he bares his neck in supplication to the Witcher, who can almost hear the life blood rushing so close to the surface; he can easily hear the strong heart pounding. The vein in his neck beats minutely, just there, and Geralt bites at it, just a little, because the young man likes the feeling of Geralt’s restraint. Geralt is learning him, just as he learns the weakness of a monster in battle.Every battle is a dance, and lovemaking is not that different, a dance Geralt rarely indulges in. 

Geralt’s hands wrap around Dandelion’s ribs, holding him in place as he suckles from teat to teat, feeling the tiny nubs harden, licking and breathing on them till they stand proud, biting lightly to see them turn red. 

“Does it please you?” he whispers into Dandelion’s ear, biting at the lobe. 

“Yes, yes!” 

“Do you want to come again, so soon?”

“oh — only if it pleases you—?”the young man stutters. 

“hmm” Geralt responds, and goes back to licking and sucking at the young man’s nipples, lightly pinching at the one not in his mouth. 

It’s the coded way de Stael’s playmates are taught to decline an act… he seems very well trained, so graceful and natural.But, then, why he is here? 

It’s not up to Geralt to wonder any of this.It’s only up to him, to give Dandelion a night of the utmost pleasure, to usher him into full flower.Geralt doesn’t need to know where the young man has been or what training he may or may not have received.They are here now, together for just one night, and Dandelion trusts Geralt to play his role. 

He moves down Dandelion’s body, tasting and scenting him as he goes.The smell of his groin is rich, heady with pleasure.Geralt kisses the crease of his thigh, then down to his balls and behind. 

Dandelion groans in pleasure as he feels Geralt licking over his hole.Geralt takes his time, enjoying the way the tight little muscle relaxes against his gentle kisses, till his tongue is able to thrust inside and the young man’s body is thrumming with pleasure. 

“Do you like this?” Geralt rumbles. 

“Yes!” Dandelion moans. “More!” 

Geralt runs his hands over Dandelion’s body, soothing him with long, smooth strokes, even as he taunts and teases him with his tongue. 

When Dandelion tries to thrust against him, moaning in desperation, Geralt says, “If you want me to open you now, just ask.” 

“Ohh,” Dandelion groans, almost beyond words.His legs are quivering from trying to move against Geralt’s powerful hold.“Yes, Wolf, please,” he moans. 

Geralt reaches for a dish of oil, gathering some on his fingers, slathering it onto his partner’s hole, and easing a finger inside,the tight ring loosened a little by all of his licking. 

The drums in the Temple seem to get a little louder, a little faster, but it may be the pounding of Geralt’s own heart, usually so sluggish and slowed by mutation, now almost painfully alive with the pleasuring of his beautiful partner. 

As he eases his finger slowly inside, his heightened senses track Dandelion’s responses… his heart pounds a little, he’s sweating and tense — but no fear, no pain, and certainly no blood.Geralt adds more oil, preparing the young man thoroughly with the utmost care.He’ll tease him all night if that’s what it takes, to bring him to ecstasy with pleasure unalloyed by any hint of pain.

He’s moved to two fingers and Dandelion is trying hard to push against his hands, when Geralt finds that spot inside him that makes his whole body spasm with pleasure. 

“Oh, yes, right there!Wolf!” Dandelion cries.The drum beats answer; chimes shimmer around the room. 

Geralt explores, finding the touch that works best; a gentle caress across the spot makes Dandelion’s cock jerk and weep. 

“Please,” Dandelion begs. 

“Just a little bit longer,” Geralt promises. He wants to draw out the preparation as long as possible… the young man’s body clenches on his fingers, the tight muscle loosens and welcomes him in… he savors the hitch in the singer’s body, the slight sob in his throat, as he adds another well-oiled finger, slowly, slowly, opening the way, brushing that sweet spot just enough to tantalize and make his body crave Geralt’s touches, eager for more….

Dandelion’s whimpers have turned to drawn out moans. His knees are drawn up and wide open on the bed.He has no leverage to thrust but his whole body is shaking with desire. 

“Please, please,” he repeats, all higher thought lost. 

This is the moment Geralt savors most, the temptation he can’t resist, that pulls him back to the Temple despite the stoic training inuring him to the ordeals of the Path.This — a beautiful, flawless human, begging him for pleasure — pure and unafraid, with no hidden agenda — the sweet body open and welcoming — nothing but joy awaiting — no pain — no darkness — no hint of violence — only sweet pleasure.Geralt can’t resist—he lowers his head to test the tight hole one more time with his tongue… the furled muscle welcomes him with a fluttering dance — he is ready. 

Geralt eases his way up the young man’s body, kissing his mouth with a deep, searing kiss, drinking down his groans and his pleading cries. 

“I’m going to take you now, if it pleases you…” he whispers into Dandelion’s ear. 

“Oh yes, yes, yes,” Dandelion groans, mindless with need. 

Geralt slicks up his cock till he’s dripping with oil.He can’t help but feast his eyes on the beautiful sight as his cock head kisses Dandelion’s eager entrance, and he fills his ears with the delicious sounds the singer makes as he slips inside. He presses in meeting only the sweetest resistance, joining together like their bodies were made for nothing else… 

The singer lets out a loud moan, his voice ringing with lusty fulfillment as Geralt’s cock breaches his body. 

Geralt eases in, in tiny thrusts, slipping steadily deeper, till he’s all the way seated. 

The young man’s erection is pressed between their bellies, slick with his own fluid.Geralt holds still, just wanting to memorize the perfection of the moment, Dandelion’s cock trapped between them, squeezed tightly between their two bodies, and Geralt inside the young man, filling him up, preparing to bring him to full flower for the glory of the Goddess. 

“For Melitele’s glory,” Geralt grits out as he begins to move. 

He dances with his hips, every movement controlled, his every heightened sense focused on Dandelion, making sure to caress that spot inside him again and again. He’s moving so slowly, like he’s never been a Witcher moving faster than the human eye can see — so slowly he feels like a marble statue, like stone brought to life, grinding slowly into his lover’s body and out, like ice moving down the side of a mountain. 

Geralt soothes Dandelion’s body, kissing his neck, losing himself in the young man’s responses. Dandelion’s body is so eager, so open, so ready to flower.In his heart Geralt praises Melitele that he is here, that he was chosen for this honor, and as he prays, the motions of his body grow even slower, his movements even weightier, and he feels Dandelion’s heart pounding against his own. 

“Come for me, sweetness, whenever you’re ready,” Geralt whispers. 

“Ohh,” Dandelion moans, “dear Goddess, wolf!” 

Geralt feels the singer’s body trembling beneath him, straining towards completion. 

“Don’t you want it?” Geralt whispers, holding still. 

“Yess,” Dandelion hisses.“But I want this, this moment, to last forever…” 

“Nothing lasts forever,” Geralt says but he knows what his partner means.This is something holy, so pure, and good, and right… could anything outside the Temple ever be this good? Geralt doesn’t know — but he doesn’t think so. 

“I want you, forever,” Dandelion whispers. 

“Sh,” Geralt says, and kisses him to stop him from talking.How can he convey how ruined he is, how he would never ask someone so young and bright to be part of his cursed existence?He can’t say it, so he doesn’t say anything, only focusing on drawing out the pleasure for Dandelion. 

Geralt does the best he can, holding Dandelion, stroking him, reminding him to breathe into the pleasure, edging him up and bringing him back down, fucking him so incredibly slowly that it’s like they become one breath.This is why Geralt can’t stay away from this place — the holiness of it, the intimacy that he’s never found anywhere else — even though the man in his arms is a perfect stranger, it doesn’t feel that way at all. Dandelion praises him, telling him how good it is, telling him impossible things, about how they’ll be one forever.That’s not the code of the Temple at all.The season of service to Melitele is supposed to teach young ones how to love freely, not to bind them to the one who brings them to flower. 

But Geralt can’t help but respond to Dandelion’s fervent words, as he holds the sweating body so close, feels the pounding heart and the trembling limbs, and hears the words “please” and “yes” and “oh so good” and “oh, Wolf!” caressed by the sighs of the beautiful singer. 

The night passes by in blisses, ecstasies, a seemingly endless embrace that nevertheless must end.With every crest of passion, Geralt brings the lad back down, finds new ways to please him, lets him breathe for a while in a daze till he takes him back up. 

“It’s time now, dear,” he says, as the songbirds outside the Temple signal the coming of dawn. 

“We’ll always find each other,” Dandelion whispers. 

“What?” Geralt says, shocked. 

“People linked by destiny will always find each other.” 

“Destiny is horse shit,” Geralt scoffs, but then he reconsiders.“My life is hard, and lonely, and frankly terrible.You have everything in front of you.Don’t look for me.” 

“I can’t imagine letting you go,” Dandelion whispers, as Geralt begins working him up one last time. 

“You haven’t had me, not really.This is only a pleasant dream of me, and my reality is much worse. Now hush, and come for me nicely.” 

“Oh no, please wolf!” Dandelion moans. 

“Yes, you must, all good things must end… even this, the very best thing I’ve ever known…” Geralt says. The night has passed like a wonder, and Geralt doesn’t want it to end, but it must. 

Geralt wraps his hand around Dandelion’s cock, as he pushes inside one last time… he’s been so gentle that the young man doesn’t wince, which is good, but he can’t hold back this time. 

He moves his hand over the singer’s hard cock, knowing exactly what feels exquisite, what will please him the most.His thrusts are precise, and he doesn’t step it down this time. 

“Oh! Oh!”” the cries of pleasure punch out of the singer, and as Geralt takes him over the edge, and joins him in a white hot seizure of release. 

The drums and applause and chimes of the Temple fill their ears, as they come back to earth.Geralt kisses the lad one last time, before the Priestesses’ consorts lead him away. 

“Remember me, Wolf,” he whispers, only for Geralt’s ears. 

How could he possibly ever forget? 

Geralt clears out his room, gets his things, and when the sun breaks over the eastern mountain, he’s in the stable, dressed once again in clean black clothes, leathers and Roach’s tack mended and polished, with Roach herself gleaming like a prize racing filly. 

Before he reaches the end of the lane, heart heavy, wishing he could stay and knowing the futility of any such wish, a young man dressed in brightly colored clothes catches up, a lute case slung over his shoulder. 

“I made it!Praise be to Melitele.I was afraid you’d get away.” 

Geralt scents him — Dandelion.Up close, and without the blindfold, the lad is shockingly beautiful, his wide blue eyes bright with joy. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Geralt mutters. 

“I came here looking for you,” Dandelion explains.“A prophecy about finding a wolf at the Temple? Not the clearest, but Melitele is gracious.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt says with a frown.

“I’m older than I look,” Dandelion goes on, “more experienced than I’d prefer…. I’ve been around the Continent a time or two…. but I kept one thing inviolate till now — my heart.And that I’ve offered to Melitele, an honest flowering as I reckon.” 

“Hm,” Geralt says.

“That’s right!” the lad says, and claps his hands together. “So! Where are we going?” 

“You can’t come with me! You wouldn’t last a week on the Path,” Geralt growls. 

“Let’s try it and see! I’ve no where else to be! a Witcher’s path is free! and that sounds good to me!” the bard sings raucously.

Geralt glares at the lad, but to no avail. His glare doesn’t seem to work when Dandelion clearly remembers nothing but bliss at Geralt’s touch.And Geralt can’t even contemplate bringing him anything other than joy.

“Yes! you’re stuck with me now,” Dandelion says. “Now, Wolf, my name is Jaskier.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, but he can’t help but admire the lad’s persistence. He offers a tentative smile to the memory of the tender time they shared, and the young bard beams in answer. "My name is Geralt, of the Wolf School."

“This is the start of a long and beautiful friendship,” the bard says, humming a merry tune as he skips along beside Roach and Geralt, down the pastoral lane that leads toward the rest of their life, together.

**Author's Note:**

> In real life, there was a Romantic-era intellectual, Countess Germaine de Stael, so I always think of her when Jaskier mentions his Countess. I think of Jaskier's Countess as an 18th-century style Saloniste, more of a courtesan/mistress than the real de Stael, and possibly a bit of a Sade figure (the real de Stael and de Sade were contemporaries). So my headcanon here, is that Jaskier was schooled first by his Countess, and then, because of the prophecy he mentions, finds his way to the Temple, gets a new lease on life, and finds his wolf. Yay!  
> So Jaskier is schooled sexually not once (shown here) but Twice. Booyah.


End file.
